Samara Morgan's Journal
by Spirialing
Summary: Samara Morgan's journal. Rated for strong emotion.
1. Chapter 1: The Barn

Samara Morgan's Journal  
  
6 July 1977  
  
In the barn tonight, yet again. But tonight I have news. Daddy says he's going to send me to a mental hospital in few days' time if Mommy doesn't stop having these awful images in her head. He says it's my fault that nobody on the island has enough to eat, and we have to go to the mainland quite often to buy their food. But I don't do this. I don't do any of it. And he says that I'd better not try anything funny with the horses. Daddy loves the horses more. But I don't like them. They keep me up at night. I never sleep. I don't the horses. And Daddy doesn't like me. But Mommy loves me. She doesn't tell me that the bad things happening are all my fault. She tells Daddy that I wouldn't do anything bad to the horses, but he doesn't listen to her anymore. He tells her she doesn't know what she's saying, and he says that I'm doing it to her. He tells her that I'm controlling her, possessing her, and tells me that I'd better stop. I know what they're saying right now. But they don't know it. "Richard, why? There's no reason why Samara has to be put in the barn loft at all! And what's this she's telling me you're saying about a mental hospital? I'll not let you do this to her," says Mommy. "Anna, be reasonable! The girl is a potential danger to your health! We can't have her in the house, especially not at night," says Daddy. "No, Richard, she's not dangerous! Samara would never hurt me, you, or the horses! Please, Richard, go and let her in the house. It's stifling in that barn, and I don't want her hurt," Mommy says. "I'm not going to argue with you, Anna, just get to bed. I've got calls to make," says Daddy. And now I hear Mommy going up the stairs to her room. She is very sad that I have to be in the barn. I don't want to hurt her, and every word she's saying is true. But I wonder what for Daddy has to make these calls. I do hope he is not talking about the mental hospital.  
  
10 July 1977  
  
Seven days. Seven days. Seven days. Seven days. Seven days. Seven days. Seven days. That is all I have left, until I am admitted to the mental hosptal. And until then, I am confined to the barn. I'm not allowed for Mommy to see me. And it's all Daddy ever says to me. "Seven days, Samara, only seven days," he'll say. When he comes up with the cold food. When he brings me to the house to use the bathroom. When he comes up to check that I'm still here and that the horses are unharmed. That is all he ever says. And now he and Mommy argue about me. "Richard, NO. Can't you...isn't there a way you could...? Just don't, Richard. Please. For me. Just don't," Mommy says. "Anna, I can't undo it now, even if I'd wanted to. There's no way I can take it back without the hospital getting suspicious," Daddy says. "Oh, who cares if they get suspicious? They can't interfere here!" Mommy shouts. "Anna, I CANNOT," Daddy says. "Well, can't I just SEE her, at least?" Mommy says weakly, sadly. "No, Anna," Daddy says. And then the argument is over. A centipede crawls across the floor. I imagine what the barnloft would look like on fire, covered in flame. All bright and orange and harsh. And now Daddy bursts in. But why? "Samara?" he says. "Yes, Daddy?" I say. "Um...is everything okay in here?" he asks. "Yes, Daddy," I say. "There isn't any fire in here?" he asks. "No, Daddy," I say. He leaves. And I know what this is about. He saw it on fire in his head. 'The sooner she's out, the better,' he thinks. I do hope he is not really thinking about the mental hospital. 


	2. Chaper 2: ECPH Finally there

20 July 1977 I am here now, in Eola County Psychiatric Hospital, called ECPH. But I hate it, more than I thought I would. It seems like everything here is white. While walls. White floor. White ceiling. White lights. Why does everything have to be white here? And they keep questioning me. Things like, "Do you know why you're here?" and "Why do you think you're here?" But when I tell them that I don't know why I am here, they tell me to tell the truth. And so I say, "This is the truth." They never believe me. And they always ask, "What do you know about the visions your mommy's been having?" I say, "Nothing." Still, they tell me to "tell the truth." They say that they can't learn anything about me if I don't tell everything I know. But I do tell everything I know, so they should be able to. Maybe there is nothing to learn.

23 July 1977 They think something is wrong with me. They ask me questions. Dumb questions. "Do you want to hurt anyone, Samara?" they'll ask. But I never say anything. Why would they ask this? I have hurt no one! Not even if I had the chance have I ever hurt anyone. And then they tell me to speak. "Speak, Samara. Look at me when you talk. Do you want to hurt anyone? How about the horses?" they'll repeat themselves. Do you want to hurt the horses? Yes, they don't let me sleep. Do you want to hurt anyone? Yes, Dr. Scott. I want to hurt you.

28 July 1977 They think I am crazy. That is why I was sent here. They think I am crazy. So they put me here, with crazy people. They think I want to hurt people. They think I want to hurt my mommy. And so they lock me away from her. Away from anything I ever loved. There is nothing good here. Nothing nice about this place. I want to go home. I want to see my mommy. What do they want to hear?

30 July 1977 Dr. Scott shows me pictures of weird things. They are like x-rays. A rocking horse, a doll, and a toy bear. He says I make them. "How did you make these pictures, Samara?" I don't make them. I see them, in my head. And then, they just are. I say this, but he says it's not true. He tells me to tell the truth, and when I do I can see my mommy. But it is. When can I see her?

12 August 1977 I still can't see my mommy. Everything is the same. He asks me the same things day to day. I tell him the same things. But I am always told it is not true. Why? I tell everything I know. Nothing ever changes. I am talked to like I am incompetent. My name is in everything said to me. "You must sleep sometime, Samara. Do you dream about something, Samara?" I never sleep. I don't dream. What do I have to dream about, anyway?

20 August 1977 The doctors tell me that soon they will have to start testing, if I keep saying what I do. I don't like the way they say it. I don't like what is behind their words. What is it they want to hear? What I say is never enough. I will stop talking. No one likes what I have to say, so why say anything?

1 September 1977 They have begun to test on me. I have to do weird tests in little thin booklets. Some of the questions tell a sentence and ask if it makes sense to me, and if it does I have to write what it means to me. But I don't get it. What does any of matter?

11 September 1977 Daddy is here today. I don't know exactly why. He didn't say anything to me, and of course I didn't say anything. They are talking. "What do you mean, she doesn't talk?" Daddy asks. "I'm sorry, Mr. Morgan. We don't know what happened. She was talking for the first month or so, then one day, ten days ago, she just didn't say anything. She hasn't since. We don't know why," says one of the doctors. "I pay you to know why!" Daddy says. "Yes, we are aware of that, Mr. Morgan, and we are testing--" "Is that all you can do? Test her? There has got to be something more you can do!" Daddy shouts. "Mr. Morgan, I am going to have to ask you to please be quiet. This is a mental hospital, and our patients cannot be disturbed." the doctor says. "You think I care? All I ever wanted was a normal child, a normal life, so I send Samara here, hoping you can change her into the child behind the...the..." Daddy says, "I don't know. But isn't there something more..." "Well...I'm not sure if I should tell you this...but there is one last option. Normally, it is a last resort when there is absolutely nothing else. But it is as you wish it," the doctor says quietly. "What is it?" Daddy asks. "Psychosurgery, brain surgery used to treat a mental illness. It is a bit risky..." the doctor says. "Well, if that's all that can be done, I suppose we should try," Daddy says. "All right, Mr. Morgan. You will have to sign this permission form for us to do it," the doctor says. "Of course." "We'll call you to tell you when we are going to do it," the doctor says, "you may be on your way now." He is leaving now. What were they talking about?

23 September 1977 I don't speak anymore. I didn't say anything since the first of this month. That is why they tested me. But I have a good feeling about this day. Years from now, something good will happen. I don't know what or why. But it is a happy thing. And I still don't know what Daddy came for. I don't understand what they were talking about. Child behind the what? This is who I am, there is no child behind what they are seeing. There is nothing wrong with me. I have no illness that would require surgery. I just don't understand them sometimes.

30 September 1977 Everything remains the same. I don't speak, ever. Dr. Scott is becoming more intent on asking me if I sleep and what I dream about. But I never sleep. I dream about nothing. What is a dream? I don't know what it is. I sit in my chair all night and look at the wall and see things in my head. Is that a dream? Is it a dream to sit outside and look at the sky and sing like you will never stop living and imagine what kind of things you will do with all that time you have? It is only a memory to me. I used to do that. But since I got here, I have not been out there. My only world is this horrid white place, where there is no sky, where I can't sing because I don't speak anymore, where I don't know if I will ever get out of.

4 October 1977 They have learned that I don't sleep. "How can she live, if she never sleeps?" they ask each other. I don't know how I live. I am never tired. What is it to sleep? I have never slept before. "She will HAVE to sleep soon." No, I won't. "When do we tell her?" Tell me what? What do I not know? "Maybe some sleep is all she needs to get some of her sanity back." I don't need to sleep. I am perfectly sane. Sometimes I feel like I am the only sane person here.

5 October 1977 I am getting surgery tomorrow. They won't tell me why. But I feel fine. That is why, they say, I will have to sleep soon. But I don't think I can. What if I never stop? What if it...hurts? Nothing has ever hurt me. I have never felt pain. And I have never slept. Do people feel pain, because they sleep? Did it hurt so much when they slept, that that is why they all are crazy? I don't understand. I haven't understood anything since I got here. Is that why they think I am crazy? I just want to go away, and never come back. 


End file.
